Chapter 10

  I came back from the coffee run balancing two oat milk lattes and a muffin I hadn’t earned. The lobby smelled like roses and boredom. Upstairs, my hotel room greeted me with the cold silence. I was hoping Richard an I could debrief about yesterday. My research into the letters was painting a close picture of Anne of Cleves and Queen Elizabeth, and I really needed his input.

  Except now there was a pile of books stacked on the tiny writing desk. Big ones. Heavy ones. Old enough to smell like basements and curses.

  No note. Just a subtle signature—titles about blood rites, female saints, royal crypts, and Elizabethan statecraft—plus a leather folder labeled "Isabella Stewart Gardner: Private Holdings / Restricted."

  Richard had clearly stopped by. Of course he had.

  I set the drinks down, peeled off my gloves, and opened the folder. There were photographs inside—some archival, some not. One showed a red-haired woman in a Tudor gown standing before a mirror. The caption was blank.

  The next photo was newer. Me.

  Standing outside the Athenaeum. Scarf askew. Mid-step. Looking down at my phone like nothing in the world was off-kilter.

  My stomach tightened. I hadn’t known I was being watched. That picture hadn’t come from a security feed. It had come from Richard. Or someone like him.

  The journal sat on the bedside table like a scolded child. I ignored it. Last night it was full of writing and I had read it a dozen time – cross referencing letters, entries and basically being creeped out.

  I Poured half my latte down my throat like it owed me answers. Then, finally, I walked over and opened the cover.

  At first—nothing. Just that faint warmth. Then, like breath on glass, a single sentence emerged:

  “Much suspected of me, nothing proved can be.” I read it twice.

  I’d seen it before. Somewhere. And it wasn’t fiction. It hit like a match against old kindling.

  I dropped onto the bed, latte forgotten, and reached for the top book in Richard’s pile— "The Tudors in Captivity: Writings from the Tower"—and started flipping pages.

  The quote. Elizabeth. She’d scratched it into the window of her Tower cell in 1554 while imprisoned by her sister, Mary. Carved with a diamond ring, or maybe a hairpin. Depending on the source, it was a desperate defense or a subtle warning. Much suspected of me, nothing proved can be.

  I read every mention I could find. Marginalia. Tower records. Letters. Sermons. Rumors.

  And all the while, the journal sat open beside me, glowing faintly, like it had chosen that quote for a reason.

  Three hours passed before I even noticed the sun had climbed halfway up the window. Past lunch. Boston blinking in afternoon glare.

  My brain felt like overworked taffy. I should’ve called Richard.

  But I didn’t trust what he’d say.

  I wanted clarity. Sass. Possibly baked goods. So I called Candy.

  She picked up on the second ring. “You breathing?” “Barely.”

  “That’s good enough. Talk.”

  “I don’t know what to do with any of this. Richard’s gone, Tudor’s staying at the museum like a feline knight-errant, and the journal is quoting Tudor graffiti now.”

  “Define graffiti.” I read her the line. And then told her about the last thirty six hours – omitting how hot Richard was, of course, that ass hat.

  Long pause. “That’s real. She wrote that in the Tower. You’re in it now.” “I know.”

  “Go eat something.” “I just got coffee.”

  “That’s caffeine. Not food. Your blood sugar’s lower than your standards.” That earned a reluctant laugh.

  Candy softened. “Go to Oni Noodle House. Tremont Street. It’s four blocks from you. They do these insane gluten-free Udon bowls with bone broth, lemongrass, and shiitake that could resurrect a ghost.”

  “Sounds like a séance in a bowl.”

  “Exactly. Get the ‘Ash Queen special.’ They’ll know.” “Candy…”

  “Mmhmm?”

  “Do you think I’m wrong to even talk to him? Richard?”

  “You’re not wrong. You’re just wounded. And wounds are painful on purpose. That doesn’t mean your instincts are lying.”

  I breathed through it.

  “Now go. Eat. Or I’ll show up with Tupperware and maternal energy.” “Love you.”

  “I know.” Click.

  I stared at the journal one more time, then slipped it into my bag. Just in case. Then I headed out, coat flapping like a cape, into the cold Boston afternoon.

  The city looked normal.

  But I was starting to learn better.

  The bell above the door let out a polite jingle, like it was trying not to interrupt anyone’s lunch.

  Inside, Oni Noodle House felt like another universe. Warm. Steamy. Loud in a comforting way—chopsticks clinking, spoons scraping bowls, an open kitchen hissing with broth and oil.

  The walls were painted black but lined with hand-scrawled white paper menus in Sharpie. Little paper lanterns hung at different heights, glowing gold, making the whole place feel like a storm beacon bobbing in the middle of a winter sea.

  The smell hit first: lemongrass, miso, sesame oil, toasted garlic, shiitake, and citrus. My stomach made a noise that sounded like betrayal.

  Booths were packed. College students hunched over homework with ramen bowls the size of helmets. An older couple shared gyoza like it was foreplay. At the back, a kid was building a soy sauce volcano with chopstick scaffolding.

  It was normal. Beautifully, blessedly normal.

  A total contrast to the Vatican dossiers, talking journals, and bloody Tudor prophecies currently living in my tote bag.

  I exhaled for the first time all day.

  A barstool opened up by the window. I slid into it, hoping to disappear into a menu. The edges were sticky, which I weirdly found reassuring. Real places had sticky menus.

  I hadn’t even opened my mouth to order when the door chimed again—and something shifted.

  Everyone looked up.

  Two women stood in the entryway. One was kissing the other goodbye. Not dramatically— just a lingering, private thing, like their goodbye happened at this same noodle shop every Tuesday. One of them—tall, cropped black hair, olive coat, artist’s hands—exited with a

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  wink. The other turned toward the bar. She was hot. Objectively. Maddeningly. The whole restaurant noticed.

  And not just because of the kiss.

  The woman who stayed behind—hot girl with heat-vision cheekbones and a thrifted blazer so perfect it had to be cursed—walked straight to the bar and slid onto the stool next to mine.

  She didn’t even look around. Just sighed and muttered under her breath:

  “It’s noodles, not a sex tape. You’d think no one here had ever seen a kiss before.”

  I glanced at her, brow raised. “Maybe they just don’t usually get a floor show with their dumplings.”

  She turned her head—just a fraction—and smiled. “And here I thought I’d be the one with all the wit.” “I’m pacing myself.”

  A beat passed.

  Then she reached into her messenger bag, pulled out a notebook covered in travel stickers and scrawled Sharpie notes, and said, “Nina.”

  “Sadie.”

  “No last names. How delightfully paranoid.” “I prefer ‘cautiously interesting.’”

  Nina laughed. Low and amused. Then flagged the server and said, “Two Ash Queen Specials. One for me. One for the woman with secrets.”

  I blinked. “How did you know?”

  “You look like someone who hasn’t eaten today and has either fled a cult, fought a ghost, or broken up with a Sagittarius.”

  I squinted at her. “Two out of three.”

  Nina raised her water glass in mock toast. “To the survivors.” We clinked.

  The bowls came fast—steaming and fragrant, full of thick rice noodles in shimmering golden broth. A swirl of soft-boiled egg, seaweed ribbons, charred mushrooms, and something that looked like smoked daikon floated on top.

  I didn’t ask what it was. I was already in love.

  Nina took one sip and leaned back like she’d just solved a math proof. “God, I needed this.” “Is the ‘Ash Queen Special’ an actual thing or did you just make that up?”

  “It’s on the secret menu. Kind of like the Illuminati but with better broth.” I raised an eyebrow.

  She set her chopsticks down and reached into her bag again—this time pulling out a beat-up folder. Inside were color printouts, photocopies, hand-marked pages that looked like they belonged to a haunted librarian.

  “You know how some people go down rabbit holes? I jump into oubliettes. With snacks.” “Academic oubliettes?”

  “Something like that. I’m writing a thesis on historical erasure of female power in folklore and art. And lately—” she pulled out a photo of a stained glass panel “—I keep coming back to her.”

  The image was familiar. A red-haired woman. Crowned. Tudor dress. Hand raised as if in mid-spell.

  My stomach tightened.

  “She shows up everywhere,” Nina continued, tracing the edge of the page. “But never

  named. Just shows up. Sometimes in windows. Sometimes in mirrors. Always before something burns, someone dies or a museum goes dark.

  I swallowed a too-big mouthful of broth. Coughed.

  “She’s known in some circles as the Ash Queen. Which sounds dramatic until you realize people—actual people—swear they saw her before major fires in London, Lisbon, San Francisco, Boston…”

  I wiped my mouth. “You think she’s a real person?”

  “I think,” Nina said, eyes sharp, “there are women history couldn’t kill. And when they refuse to stay buried, the world rebrands them as withches.”

  I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  Because I had a warm journal in my bag that might agree with her. Nina twirled her noodles. “But that’s just me. What’s your damage?”

  I smiled into my bowl. “Oh, you know. Family drama. Inheritance issues. Potential spiritual possession. The usual.”

  She laughed again. “You’re my new favorite.”

  We ate in relative silence after that. Not awkward. Just… companionable. Like we both knew we’d said enough, for now.

  I sipped the last of my broth and watched the steam rise like breath from something ancient.

  Nina was flipping through her notes again, lips pursed, totally absorbed. She didn’t ask me any more questions. Which, weirdly, made me want to answer all of them.

  When she finally stood to go—off to a class or a conspiracy, I wasn’t sure—she left me with a card that just said:

  NINA CASTELL – freelance troublemaker

  email, substack, and three different encrypted QR codes

  As the bell above the door jingled behind her, I stared into my empty bowl and thought:

  What are the odds?

  That I’d come here. That she’d be here. That she knew that image. That I knew it.

  Some part of me—the rational part, the part raised on used bookstores and microwave therapy—insisted it was just coincidence.

  But another part, deep and quiet and old as bone, whispered: It’s starting.

  The Gardner Museum looked different in late afternoon.

  The courtyard glowed like a secret garden under glass—soft light filtering through the atrium ceiling, casting leafy shadows that moved just a little too slow.

  Richard had given me a temporary badge the night before. Said it would get me into the museum without questions. He hadn’t explained how he got it—or what strings he pulled— but when I showed it at the entrance, the security guard just nodded and waved me through like I belonged there.

  Which I absolutely did not.

  Still, I wasn’t here for the ambiance.

  I was here to find out if Nina Castell—hot, mysterious, terrifyingly well-researched Nina— was right. If this “Ash Queen” story had any roots in reality. Or if I was just spiraling.

  My goal was simple: get to the archives. Find anything—anything—that might explain how a red-haired woman kept showing up in European art, fires, and fever dreams.

  I slipped past a distracted docent near the rotunda and headed toward the Dutch Room, where Tudor had last claimed his perch. Every footstep echoed off centuries. Even the tourists whispered, like the art could hear them judging.

  My bag was heavier than usual. Maybe it was the journal. Maybe it was the fact that every mirror I passed today made me want to flinch.

  Tudor wasn’t on the bench. Or the floor. Or anywhere in sight.

  I was about to pull out my phone when a voice drifted over my shoulder—too close and too calm.

  “You know, cats are very particular about where they sleep.”

  I turned to find Corwin Thorne standing three feet behind me, as if he’d grown out of the floorboards. Same docent uniform. Same unsettling stillness.

  His eyes were sharp—but distant. Like he was watching something just behind me. “I was just—uh—looking for Tudor.”

  “Of course.” He smiled. Thin. Flat. “That’s what most people say before they start talking to the walls.”

  I laughed, nervously. “You didn’t strike me as the ‘crazy cat guy’ type.”

  “You don’t strike me as the type who belongs here.” His smile didn’t move. “But here we are.”

  My fingers tightened on the strap of my bag.

  Corwin moved past me, into the gallery, arms behind his back like a priest in a confessional. “You know, this room used to be full. Before the robbery. Before the empty frames became the most important pieces in the collection.”

  “I heard.” My voice came out smaller than I meant it to. He turned. “Did you……..hmmmm?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Corwin’s head tilted. “There’s something about absence that makes people look harder. Like the void will explain itself if you stare long enough.”

  He stepped closer. The light from the window behind him caught the edge of a mirror tucked between two exhibits. It wasn’t part of the museum’s standard display.

  “I’ve seen your kind here before,” he said softly. “You’re looking for someone you won’t find..”

  “Who?”

  “The Queen.” His voice dropped to a hush. “She always liked this room best.”

  I tried not to look at the mirror. Tried not to notice how my reflection lagged half a second behind my movement.

  “Do you know what they used to call her?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ash.” His breath fogged slightly, though the room wasn’t cold. “Because everything she touched eventually burned. Cities. Dynasties. Bloodlines.”

  I took a step back.

  Corwin smiled again, wide and gleaming this time. “You haven’t given her back the book, have you?”

  I froze.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He leaned in. “You do. That’s the problem.”

  His fingers hovered an inch from my coat pocket. The one with the journal.

  But before he could move, Tudor launched from the top of the armoire with a banshee yowl, landing between us like a tiny demon in tuxedo fur.

  Corwin jerked back. “That animal has terrible energy.” Tudor arched and hissed like he agreed.

  “I have to go,” I said quickly, scooping up my cat. “Thanks for the… ambiance.”

  As I turned, the mirror beside Corwin rippled. Not visibly. Not physically. But the air around it grew thick, like heat rising from pavement—and in the glass, for just a second, I thought I saw a red-haired woman watching me.

  She didn’t blink. She just smiled.

  Back at the hotel, I shut the door quietly. Like something might still be listening.

  Tudor immediately leapt from my arms and stalked over to the window, tail twitching. He stared into the alley like he expected it to blink.

  I tossed my coat over the chair, then sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the journal still buried in my bag.

  I didn’t want to open it.

  Which, of course, meant I had to.

  The second I flipped it open, the page shifted—dark ink bleeding in, sharp as a whisper: “I will have but one mistress here and no master.”

  —Elizabeth Regina

  I read it twice. My breath caught on the second reading. Not because it was unfamiliar.

  But because I’d seen that line once—on a wall placard at the British Museum. A quote Queen Elizabeth gave when Parliament tried to pressure her into marriage.

  How did they do it? Anne of Cleves, dismissed without ceremony by a king who chewed up wives like venison pies—yet she walked away with property, independence, and even his friendship. Elizabeth, ruling alone in a world that thought a woman’s crown was only half-bright unless a man stood beside her. Both of them maneuvered through a court of knives and whispers, and they survived. More than survived—they thrived. I wondered what secret they carried, what inner compass let them hold ground when every law and sermon preached their weakness. Did they memorize every man’s vanity and twist it to their own ends? Did they learn early that solitude could be armor? Or was it simply a stubborn refusal to disappear? I thought of my own blank spaces, my own questions about bloodlines and belonging, and felt a spark of kinship. If they could bend the rules of their world, maybe I could bend mine The journal’s warmth seeped into my hands as another line appeared beneath the quote— this one in the older script, the one that smelled faintly of smoke and rosemary:

  “My crown is ash. My blood is fire. Through her, I will rise. Sadie, help me”

  I snapped the book shut like it might bite.

  The mirror across the room didn’t move. But something about its reflection felt off—tilted.

  Like it didn’t quite agree with the shape of the world. I didn’t go near it.

  Instead, I turned on every light in the room. Even the bathroom. Even the closet. Then I curled up on the bed with Tudor on my chest, purring like he was guarding something he didn’t understand.

  I didn’t sleep for a long time. I lay listening to Tudor purr and wondered where the hell Richard was.

  But I also didn’t open the journal again.

  Because tonight, it felt like something inside it was awake.

  How do you feel about Nina?